


the sacrifice of serving

by ghostlyAnarchist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Blow Jobs, Codependency, Knight Dave Strider, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Prince Dirk Strider, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27040108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostlyAnarchist/pseuds/ghostlyAnarchist
Summary: “Holding court is dull. I can think of at least a dozen other things I’d like to be holding.”There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s been holding more pleasant things all evening.
Relationships: Dirk's Bro | Alpha Dave Strider/Dirk Strider
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	the sacrifice of serving

**Author's Note:**

> This wouldn't leave my head, so here it is. This piece is basically me handing over my ID card. Very loosely edited, I apologize for any glaring typos!

“Where’s my brother?”

The two handmaidens before you exchange a nervous glance. They don’t want to answer, which tells you all you need to know. He’s off having a merry time while you sit on the throne, listening to complaint, after complaint, after complaint. The fields are too dry. The huntsmen are scaring away the fish. The fishermen are driving away the hunt. There’s a merchant in the town square claiming to sell a magical elixir, sure to light a fire in the bedroom.

It’s tedious.

It’s exhausting.

And your brother, Hand to the Throne, Knight of Derse, is nowhere to be found.

“Your majesty,” one of them begins timidly, “I believe—”

You cut her off with a wave. “No need. Thank you.”

You know exactly where he is—the local tavern, drowning in mead and women. It’s not hard to imagine his crooked nose buried in the bosom of some spritely wench, laughing, and carrying away while he recounts tales of his most _admirable_ knighthood.

Nonsense. All of it. You know why he swore an oath to the Brotherhood, and it’s not out of any sort of loyalty or adventure.

No. Your eldest brother had always been this way. Facetious and indolent. To give up the crown was to give up responsibility, passing the burden to your shoulders.

He’s sworn to protect the throne, to protect _you_ , but right now—you feel as though you might be the one to kill him.

You call on a servant to fill your bath, but dismiss him when it’s ready, choosing to undress alone. They’re used to it by now, you haven’t had a proper valet in years. Everyone knows that David is the one that tends to these things for you. From the outside looking in, he appears diligent and devoted, but you know that it’s only because he views you as the easiest chore to take on.

But tonight, David isn’t here. So, you stubbornly wrestle with the fastenings of your clothing and disrobe as quickly as possible; the bath won’t stay hot forever, despite a fire burning in the hearth.

The first step feels like heaven, warmth curling around your bony ankle and coaxing you in. There’s a sachet of lavender and herbs left steeping in the warm water, and you breathe in the calming scent as you nestle your way down into the tub. This is what you needed. You let out a small sigh, sinking back with your hands on the edge, letting the bath work its magic.

You don’t need David for this—you’re a perfectly capable young man. Old enough to rule a kingdom and old enough to take a bath without assistance. Though, you do miss having someone to work their fingers through your hair or to apply a soothing salve to your neck. It’s not like you couldn’t call on someone to do so. There isn’t a soul in the castle not up for the task, but you’re feeling rather petulant.

But on second thought.

If David _did_ decide to grace you with his presence, you can barely fathom the betrayal he’d feel seeing another set of hands on you, working the kinks from your shoulders. That’d be a delightful sight, after all the times you’ve had to hold your breath to keep from breathing in the stench of booze and perfume.

What would he do, you wonder, if you told him that you didn’t need him?

“What are you smiling about? I hope you’re not getting handsy beneath the bubbles.”

You nearly crack your head on the porcelain trying to scramble up, hands slipping where they try to grasp the ledge, water sloshing over the side. For all his clunky armor, you hadn’t heard David enter your private quarters. How long has he been standing there, leaning against the far wall beneath the candelabra?

“Where were you?” You try to regain your dignity, righting yourself and adjusting the suds over your more vulnerable bits and pieces.

David notices. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“It’s called modesty.”

“It’s called—” David pushes off the wall. You hear the armor now, the scratch of metal on metal as he walks closer. He stops at the foot of your tub, arms crossed, and mouth pulled into an amused twist. “—being a brat.” 

You huff in a way that surely proves his point, but you’re too irritated to care.

“Did I miss something important? Is that what you’re so upset about?”

There’s no way that your face doesn’t portray every ounce of the contempt you feel. You’re counting on it. “You may not take your post seriously, but I do—which means holding court. Does that ring any bells for you?”

David scratches at the blonde scruff of his chin, eyes searching the rafters. “Was that today?”

“Yes,” you hiss, “I reminded you last night, and the night before that!”

“Holding court is dull. I can think of at least a dozen other things I’d like to be holding.”

There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s been holding more pleasant things all evening. “David—”

“Oh. I’m David, am I?”

You feign disinterest, refusing to watch as he circles the tub. “That’s the name father gave you, isn’t it?”

Now you’re just being stubborn. You know that’s not what he meant; you’ve called him Dave since you were old enough to speak.

“Of course.” Dave pauses, sinking to his knees behind you. “ _Deidrick_.”

Hearing your name—your full name—coming from his lips makes you shiver, and you white-knuckle the ledge of the tub to suppress it. He never calls you anything but Dirk, even when his station calls for it. To hear it low and teasing, so close to your ear…

Warmth pools in your belly.

“If you were anyone else, I’d have your head on a spike for that.” A lie. You’d never be so cruel, and he knows it.

“I'm lucky that you’re so fond of my head then.”

“More reason to have it on a spike,” you counter, groaning on the last syllable as Dave’s hands start to work the anxious knots from your shoulders. You tilt your head back, far enough so that you can see him taking note of the tired bags beneath his eyes, the scars that cut through his brow and cheek from the many men that have sincerely tried, and failed, to behead him.

“Go on. Tell me about court.”

You let your eyes slip shut. “I don’t think I will.”

In truth, there’s nothing to tell. It’s the same complaints lodged at you, day in and day out. You’d appointed Dave as your Hand so that he could shoulder some of the burden, but he’s rarely useful, even when he shows. You’ve grown used to his satiric commentary, but never to his absence.

“Fine. If you want to be a baby,” he huffs, one hand leaving your shoulder momentarily to rustle around the basket holding your various bathing essentials. Soaps and salts mostly, but it’s the shaving oil that he slathers on your cheeks. “We will make sure you look the part.”

“Dave, I—” You promptly shut your mouth, because shaving oil does _not_ taste good—something that you only know because Dave had convinced you to drink a vial when you a much younger, much more naive, boy. Needless to say, you learned the hard way that it doesn’t make you grow facial hair, and you privately blame that incident on the fact that you’ve never quite been able to do so.

But if Dave wants to shave off your peach fuzz, so be it.

There’s the distinct sound of a straight-razor scraping against the sharpening block. “Hold still. Don’t want you to lose an eyebrow.”

If you lose an eyebrow, he _will_ lose his head. You do your best to convey that message in the furious crease of your brows, the ones sitting on your forehead, still very much intact.

Dave laughs at your silent threat, reaching around to take you firmly by the chin. His fingers are calloused but still have an edge of softness. You’ve felt them on your shoulders and back, pressing into the knobs of your spine. You’ve felt them on your calves and the arches of your feet after long hours on the training grounds. You’ve felt them in your hair, massaging your scalp, in a position similar to this.

And now you feel them tilt your head back, keeping you still as he drags the razor’s edge along the underside of your jaw. He’s hunched over you, face drawn tight in determination, an expression that you’re not used to him wearing. It sends your stomach aflutter.

It hits you sometimes, that this is the man who was meant to be King. That it was Dave, not you, born to wear the crown.

And that he gave it up.

He gave _everything_ up, and for what?

Dave turns you, careful and attentive. His tongue sits between his teeth, you can see the pink of it in the dim firelight, poking out from his lips in deadly concentration. The scruff on his chin and cheeks is starting to get long enough to darken. It’s him, not you, that needs a shave. Lifting a hand from the water, you reach up to touch it.

Rough, just like his callouses; just like his voice after one too many sips of wine.

“Careful,” he warns. “There’s still a razor in my hand.”

It doesn’t matter. You know he’d never hurt you, not intentionally.

“You’re letting yourself go,” you tease, digging your fingers into the bristles. “Look at this.”

He hums, chuckling lightly to himself. “You don’t like it?”

You do, quite a bit. It makes him look rugged and handsome, but there isn’t enough scruff in the world to harshen all of his softness. There will always be the warmth to his deep, auburn eyes, red in the lick of flames coming from the hearth. Admiration had turned to jealousy when you came of age. You’ll never have the bulk of muscle that he does, or the charming machoism, destined to be lanky and waifish.

And now that jealousy is something else.

“It seems annoying to deal with,” you comment, careful to keep your voice dull and disinterested. “Does it bother the girls down at the brothel when you’ve got your head between their legs?”

Dave pauses, blade lingering at your throat. It thrills you to know he holds your life so precariously in his hands. One swift motion and he could end you, slit your throat and seize the title that had always been his. But he won’t, not even when you needle him like this.

“Why are you so curious? I doubt you could grow enough stubble to leave even a mild rash.” He slaps your cheek lightly. “I don’t think you’ll have much to worry about. Your face is smoother than an infant’s bottom.”

That’s not the reason you were inquiring, and he knows it. Leave it to him to ruin your fun.

Scowling, you bat his hand away. “I’m ready to get out now. The water's gone cold.”

Dave reaches over to stick his hand into the bath, testing the validity of your claim. There’s no room for you to argue. His fingertips brush against your stomach beneath the water, featherlight just above your navel. It’s an accident, so fleeting in nature that anyone else would miss it altogether.

But you’re not anyone else. You’re intimately aware of every touch that Dave administers.

He helps you out, holding out a robe for you to step into. It’s warm, heated where it’d been draped over a rack next to the fire, but your skin still breaks out in goosepimples at the sight of him kneeling at your feet to tie a knot in the sash. He could have done this standing up, but for once you’re not going to complain. When he’s done, he runs his hands down the outer flanks of your thighs, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in the silk.

Dave looks up at you, eyes heavy-lidden and darkened by a fan of lashes. His hands stop at your hips, large enough to bracket them perfectly while his thumbs press into the tender flesh above your pelvic bone. It makes your head spin, but there’s nowhere for you to steady yourself except for a fistful of Dave’s hair—an option that wouldn’t help your rapidly approaching problem.

Instead, you will your knees not to buckle under his touch.

“Are you still upset with me for skipping court?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say, watching as his lips turn into a smile. The right side doesn’t mirror the left anymore, causing it to be a bit lopsided. You blame the scar that runs through it, nicking one-to-many nerves. After a moment, you add, “I’m upset with you for far more reasons than that.”

Dave sighs heavily. “I can never do right by you, can I? You’re impossible.”

You choose not to say anything to that. If he doesn’t know, why should you tell him?

The grip on your waist tightens and he shakes you just enough to knock you off balance. Weight shifting forward, you’re no longer able to avoid grabbing ahold of his hair, fisting it roughly to keep yourself from toppling over. Dave grunts and the sound goes straight to your gut.

You pull it again.

“What is it this time?” Dave asks, bearing his teeth, oddly defensive. “Because I’ve been spending time down by the docks? If you want a whore that badly, brother, we can make that arrangement.”

“What use would that be? There’s already one at my feet,” you snipe back without thinking. The moment the words leave your mouth, you pale. Dave’s blank, taciturn expression barely registers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Well,” he says, too calmly for your liking, “I suppose that solves the mystery, doesn’t it? You’re mad because I’m such a lousy whore.”

“What— _ahhh_ ,” you hiss, biting off a curse beneath your breath. Dave digs his fingers painfully into your sides, dragging you closer until he nearly breaks his nose on your stomach. There he rubs his cheek and even through the layer of silk, you feel the rough burn of his scuff.

You try again. “What are you going on about?”

“It makes sense now—all those times I ignored how your cock stiffened in my presence? You thought I was being a _lousy_ _whore_. I’ll admit,” Dave laughs, a bitter sound that makes your stomach churn, “I didn’t expect you to take my title as Hand to the Throne so literally.”

He can’t see your horror, not with the way his face is nuzzled into your belly, but you’re sure he feels the tension that runs through you, immobilizing you into a state of rictus. He’s only trying to get a rise out of you. He doesn't _mean_ any of this, just more of his crude humor to rub salt in a wound he doesn’t know exists.

He doesn’t know.

Not about the truth.

Not about how it’s not _him_ that you’re jealous of. Not how he wheedles away countless nights with faceless bodies down at the brothels. It’s the faceless bodies you envy. The men and women who get to have Dave in ways that you can’t and can never.

Not about how you’re angry with yourself for craving his attention so much that you’ll go through desperate measures to achieve it.

Not about how you know that in doing so, you’ve made yourself a burden to him—a thing he has to tend to.

And he doesn’t know that you’re angry at him for making you this way. Angry that he gave up his birthright. You were always meant to be the second son. You’re not fit for this role he thrust upon you, and you hate him for that. You hate that he brings out your worst insecurities, forcing you to face all your inadequacies until you can’t stand to look at yourself in the mirror.

You hate him.

“I hate you,” you whisper, broken and hoarse. “I can’t stand you.”

Not the truth.

That, he does know. He must.

He must know that you love him.

“What would you have me do, dear brother?” Dave asks, words pressed into your robe, vibrating the soft skin beneath. “Do you really wish to have my head on a spike?”

You’d like to have his head somewhere else, but you’re afraid he may prefer the spike. Instead, you twist your fingers in hair, holding him close enough to suffocate. You can’t hide the way your cock jumps with his mouth so near, but it barely bothers you. He’d been right about one thing—he’s ignored it all the times before. You expect this will be no different.

“You’re a Knight of Derse, you joined the brotherhood in arms on your own accord. I’ve only ever asked you to take your position seriously. You’ve pledged loyalty to the throne. You pledged to serve it.” You pull his head away, unburying it from your midsection. A gasp escapes his perfect, scarred lips. “You pledged loyalty to _me_.”

He looks at you, silent but challenging. A challenge that you’ll rise to. What else do you have to lose?

“You pledged to serve _me._ ”

“I know exactly what I’ve done,” Dave whispers. 

Created a monster, you think.

“Do you?” And you hate how much you sound like a scared little boy, pleading with his older brother for the answers, wanting desperately for him to understand. “Do you understand what you’ve left me with?”

“I haven’t _left_ you anything,” he says, stern and serious. It shuts you right up. “You think I’m the one that doesn’t understand; that I’m a drunk who negates every responsibility thrown his way—and you may not be entirely wrong to think that. I haven’t really given you good reason to believe otherwise, and I can recognize that’s my fault. But you’re wrong.”

Being wrong isn’t something you’re accustomed to, but you don’t dare argue. Dave may be the one on his knees, but you’re the one cowering in submission. Deep down, you know he’ll always have the upper hand.

“It’s _you_ that doesn’t understand,” he finishes.

“How so?” Your voice trembles, your hands shake. He’s right, though you’ll never admit it aloud. You’ve never truly understood a thing about him and only wished you had. “Enlighten me then.”

“What do you think would have happened to you? You were a young, studious prince and we were a country in need of alliances. There was talk of a marriage to Prospit before you were old enough to walk. I’m an opportunist, Dirk. I saw an opportunity and I took it. There were only the two of us and if I forfeited the crown; if it fell to you—that meant you’d stay in Derse and I could do the one thing on this godforsaken planet that I’ve ever been any good at.”

He looks at you expectantly.

“Blacking out in back alleys?”

You’re not sure what he was expecting.

“Protecting you, you insufferable brat.” He pinches your side, a slow, saccharine grin spreading when you yelp. “Or—how did you put it? _Serving_ you?”

“The only thing you’re _serving_ me is a headache,” you say, deadpan.

Falling back into your usual banter is easier than acknowledging the stir of emotions in your chest. Dave’s words and the meanings behind them are still bouncing around inside of you, making it difficult to breathe.

You can’t think of them now.

“Insufferable,” Dave repeats, but it’s fond. Honied. His hand leaves your side, snaking its way to find yours. He brings it to his mouth and a gentle kiss is placed against your knuckles. “Forgive me?”

You notice he doesn’t make any promises not to disappoint you in the future, only that he asks for forgiveness now. As much you’d like to hear him beg for it, you’d rather something else.

The burn of his lips lingers on your skin. Perhaps you’d like another.

Humming thoughtfully, you present the inside of your wrist to him. Dave, clever as he is stupid sometimes, knows what to do. He kisses you there as well, a chaste thing that still manages to set your entire body aflame.

The next is of his own initiative, higher on your forearm.

Another close to the bend of your elbow.

You have no clue what he’s playing at here, what game he thinks he’s winning. If he’s waiting for you to call him off, he’ll be waiting for an eternity. You’d let Dave devour you whole, and it’s high time he knows that.

At some point, your hand has slipped from its tangle in his hair to cup the back of his head. You don’t guide him; there’s no need to. He moves entirely on his own, mouthing back down your arm. By the time he’s to his starting point, the inside of your wrist, the kisses are no longer kisses. There's more teeth, more tongue, and now he’s sucking and biting bruises into your pale flesh. It’s easy to get lost in, eyes rolling back while you sink into a fantasy.

But your breath hitches a little too loud and Dave pulls back, the depraved fog lifting from his eyes.

He clears his throat. “Are you satisfied now?”

The undeniable stiffness below the knot of your belt should be answer enough. You know he can see how thoroughly unsatisfied you are because there’s very little hiding it. In another life, you might be brazened enough to ask him to touch you. In another, cruel enough to order it.

Here, you’re only a coward.

“Yes,” you say, swallowing down the lie, “I forgive you.”

This is the part where he stands, helping you into your nightclothes and into bed without making mention of your dilemma. Where he then stands outside your bedroom door, acting as a sentry while you sleep, all while pretending that he can’t hear you take care of yourself to thoughts of him. It’s routine at this point.

Except, Dave doesn’t stand. He asks you a question that barely registers through the haze of your turbulent thoughts.

“Do you trust me?”

“What?”

“Dirk. Do you trust me? Yes or no.”

When it comes to your brother, trust is relative. You may not trust him to show up to important meetings or give you sincere advice on dealing with the Alternian representatives. But you _do_ trust him to hold a razor-sharp blade to your throat without seriously maiming or killing you.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he says, letting out a breath. With that, his hands find tasseled ends of your sash, and before you realize what he’s doing, he tugs them loose.

And that’s it. You suck in a breath, standing there completely exposed, watching as the last thread of plausible deniability vanishes before your eyes.

Because Dave is looking directly at the hard, leaking cock straining between your legs.

“Has anyone done this for you? Touched you at all? Other than your own hand.”

You're not sure if you’re capable of blushing with all your blood preoccupied elsewhere, but the sheer mortification you feel at his question probably colors your cheeks anyway. There’s an obvious implication in the way he asks it, telling you he already knows the answer.

There’d been a Prospitian stable hand by the name of English who’d you gotten close with, but it’d never gone further than light petting and a few sloppy kisses before he’d been relocated. But you don’t think Dave’s inquiring about your failed amorous ventures.

“No.”

“You can stop me at any point. Do you understand?”

In a daze, you nod. You can hardly process what’s happening. It all feels like a dream, one you’ve had before. The kind of dream where you wake up sweat-slick and sticky with release.

“Relax,” Dave coos. “Let me take care of you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and nod again, knowing your voice would betray how utterly wrecked you already are. Watching him is no longer an option—this may be the only time he pushes his disgust aside far enough to do this for you, and so you want it to last. But if you see Dave’s lips wrapped around your cock so soon, you’ll embarrass yourself.

But the disadvantage is that you can’t prepare yourself for what’s to come.

The warm, wet suction of Dave’s mouth envelops your aching erection, and you double over with a choked-off moan, knees buckling from the intensity of it. There’s nothing but air behind you and nothing in front of you but Dave. Nowhere to ground yourself when he sinks down, far enough that your cockhead nudges at the tight clasp of heat in the back of his throat.

“W-wait,” you pant. Dave pulls off you with an obscene pop, and you whimper, fighting the urge to chase him. “I just need to—I can’t do this standing up.”

The confusion ebbs from Dave’s face. For once, he doesn’t make a snide or teasing comment. He doesn’t say anything at all, only guides you down to kneel in front of him on the hard flagstone. There, he slips your robe the rest of the way off, leaving you completely stripped and bare while the metal of his armor glows orange, backlit by the fire.

“Lay back,” Dave instructs, and you do so obediently. He stops you just before your head hits the ground with a hand around the back of your neck. “Hold on.” Bunching up the robe, he places it down as a makeshift pillow. “There.”

This silk doesn’t pad well, even when bundled, but it’s the thought that counts. He asked to take care of you, and you can see that he’s trying.

He’s _trying_.

Something clicks in your naïve, troubled psyche.

“Stop.” You scramble to prop yourself up on your elbows. A pulse of precome beads at the tip of your traitorous cock at the sight of Dave frozen mid-plunge between your splayed, naked thighs, ready to resume his task.

That’s the keyword. Task.

You’ve just spent the better portion of the night berating him for not adequately servicing you.

You called him a _whore_.

He’s never attempted to touch you before. Why now?

Because you’ve made him feel like it’s his duty. That’s why. He’s only trying to appease you, entertaining your selfish, dark desires. He doesn’t want you, not like you want him. He only wants you sated enough to ease the pressure of your thumb, so that he might continue to spend more evenings off the castle grounds.

You realize you’ve said all this aloud when the concerned crease of Dave’s brow turns to one of outrage.

“Can I do _nothing_ to please you?”

Before you can answer, he takes you by the hips, dragging you forward, only muttering an apology when your elbows slip from beneath you and your head cracks against the barely-cushioned ground. You don’t have time to complain, only to moan outright as he hoists your legs over his shoulders, resting them on the unforgiving metal of his pauldrons.

“What do you want to hear, Your Majesty?” Dave growls, right into the tender meat of your inner thigh. “That I’ve imagined this before? That I’ve fucked my fair share of blonde, freckled young men? That I make them bury their faces in pillows to hide what’s missing?” He bites where his lips touch, hard enough you cry out. “Do you want to hear that I think of you the entire time?”

You do. But you can’t bear to hear it if it’s only a lie meant to pacify you.

“Just the truth.” You’re so hard that your cock hurts more than the pain beginning to blossom at the base of your skull. If the truth is that he’s disgusted with you, so be it. As long as he touches you in the end. You’re not above begging. Not anymore. _“Please.”_

“What good would that do? I’ve never lied to you before. The problem is that you don’t believe me when I tell you.” He leans forward, bending you in half with the bulk of his weight until you’re nose-to-nose and your thighs burn from the stretch. “I could show you.”

You whimper like a kicked mutt.

Dave kisses you, and it’s not unlike the open-mouth laves he’d placed on your wrists. He sets right to work, skipping straight to coaxing your lips apart with his crafty tongue. It doesn’t take much work; you open right up for him, moaning into his mouth because you’re too enthralled to pull away. He kisses just like you’d always imagine he would, a strange melody of rough and gentle. For every bite, there’s a kiss.

It’s Dave that breaks and pulls away, but not to mock you. It’s to continue his affection, pressing a kiss to the underside of your jaw. Your throat. The dip of your clavicle. Your chest, dangerously close to your—

He looks up and your eyes lock with unwavering contact. You watch as his tongue darts out to give the stiff peak of your nipple a lick.

“ _Dave_ ,” you gasp out, completely helpless, arching off the cold ground as much as your position allows. If you had any shame left, you’d be embarrassed by the way he smiles at you, satisfied by your wanton noises.

But you have no shame left and he knows that.

Dave latches his mouth around the tiny, pert bud, and _sucks_ —and oh, you’re going to scream. But you think he might be aiming for that, so you bite your lip and grab ahold of his hair, pulling him off and pushing his head lower.

“Show me then.”

And he does. He swallows you down, same as before, and you lose all sense of self-control. Not that you had much to begin with. If you did, you probably wouldn’t be laid out, naked on the floor, with your brother’s mouth on your cock.

Dave works you with a practiced determination, and it’s clear he doesn’t intend for you to last long. He wants to pull you apart, and he does so easily. Each bob of his head; each drag of his tongue; each sloppy kiss to your weeping tip. They all drive you closer and closer; until your ankles are locking behind his head, toes curling, your chest hyperventilating with quick, breathy moans.

“Dave. Dave. I’m—” Your hands slap against the flagstone because if they stay in his hair, you might rip it out. He doesn’t let up, if anything he sucks you with more determination, holding your hips down to keep you from bucking into the heat of his mouth. The message is clear. He’s in control and that’s almost enough to send you over.

You just need a little more.

 _“_ Dave. _David.”_

Dave pulls off, wholly debauched—hair wild mess, lips swollen, pupils dark and lust-blown—and it excites you to think he’s ended up that way because of _you_. He wastes no time wrapping a hand around you, stroking the rest of the way. It doesn’t take much, just a few quick pulls of his wrist alongside a few whispered encouragements.

_“There you go.”_

_“C’mon.”_

_“Let go. Let me see you.”_

You come, pulsing over his hand, keening the whole way through. Darkness corners your vision, making your sight go black and fuzzy—something you’re not sure happens due to the intensity of your orgasm, or because you’ve concussed yourself by slamming your head against the ground during it. Dave strokes you until you can no longer take it, weakly pushing at his wrist. He obliges your request, sitting back while carefully easing your jellied legs from his shoulders.

You’re so wrapped up in your blissful, post-orgasmic haze, you almost miss the awkward way he shifts on his knees.

Oh.

“I can do it,” you say quickly, trying to sit up. The last thing you want is for this to be unbalanced. “Let me take care of you too.”

Dave stops you with a hand on your chest, gently pushing you to lay back down. “All you need to do is lay right there and let me look at you. Next time, alright? Don’t really want to wrestle with getting all this armor off.”

You watch as his free hand adjusts the chainmail skirt covering his groin, raising it to expose the linen underneath. He’s right. It does look like a lot of trouble, and you’re oddly satisfied with watching him grope himself through his breeches. Especially when his eyes never leave your spent cock, or the mess you’ve made.

It’s only after he’s come, grunting and groaning while hunched over you, that you realize he’s implied there will be a next time.

Dave carries you to bed, despite your feeble protests. In the end, you relent, too shaky and exhausted to stand without buckling. He gracelessly drops you onto the mattress, grinning at your scowl. Despite it, you grab his hand, willing him to stay when he attempts to turn from your bedside.

You don’t expect him to stay.

You don’t expect him to rid himself of his armor.

You don’t expect him to strip down, naked as you are, and crawl into your bed.

You’ve learned not to expect anything from him.

After all, he’s still Dave and always will be.

But you find yourself with your head on his bare chest, moving with the steadied rise and fall of his breathing, replaying all of the things he's said on repeat. You think he’s asleep until he speaks, hushed in the dark canopy of your bed.

“Did you find it annoying?”

You stifle back a yawn. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Dave moves your hand from the hair on his chest to the bristle on his cheeks. “Having this between your legs.”

“Oh. In that case, no. Only the man it’s attached to.” Truthfully, your heartbeat quickens at the memory of it scraping against your skin and you hope to feel the lingering burn for days. “It’s manageable.”

“And this wasn’t done just to sate a curiosity?”

Ah, there it is. His real worry, so akin to your own.

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Well, then.” You do less to stifle the next yawn, patting him on the cheek. It’s rare that you’re the one to calm his panic, so often it’s the other way around. But you’re too tired to dwell on the irony. “Go to sleep.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I did.” You lean up to look at him. Even in the shadows, you can tell he’s been fretting. “Here. Let me show you.”

You guide his mouth to yours.


End file.
